


stars in his hand; sun on his face

by Marmoniel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmoniel/pseuds/Marmoniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus Lupin goes through emotions like the cycles of the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. heat of the sun

This is a tale about the sun sleeping.

When the sun goes down, your skin tears apart. Your muscles change. Your bones shift. When the sun sleeps, the pain starts. Your own screams rip apart your throat, tearing the inside of you, blood coming up past your lips, splatters on the ground.

When the sun sleeps, the pain starts. But when the first surge of pain, more comes. For years and years, the sun sleeps. It sleeps, and every month like clockwork (or like the cycles of the moon incidentally), the pain starts. The pain doesn’t end. It carries on until there cannot be anymore. Until the sun wakes, and your bones shift back into place, your skin tightens, you return to your normal form. The sun wakes up, your pain tolerance goes down, you go to sleep.

You wake, the sun is awake, 3 familiar faces lean over you, bringing the heat of the sun. It still feels as though the sun is sleeping, but the warmth of the boys around you fills the darkness that pushes at you. You relish the heat on your face, letting a soft smile curl at the edges of your lips.

Then the clock spins, the sun sleeps, and the moon ripens. Then comes the pain, again, again, again. Pain that tears at the walls and borders and defences you’ve built up. You think before it, I can stop it it won’t happen again I’ll be okay I will make it. But then the bricks in your mind crumble and fall apart and break and rip, and you’re lying vulnerable, naked on the cold, hard wooden floor once again.

It is all you know. Your life revolves around the sleep cycle of the sun, the parties of the moon. The bags around your eyes deepen and sag. Your life revolves around the pain.

Then,

Then,

A miracle.

You find yourself (of course) naked, cold, the pain tearing you apart. The screams, the sound of your bones shattering, your organs squelching. Blood runs down your face, your chest, your back, legs, arms. It drips in puddles on the floor.

You hear it before you see it. You smell it before you hear it. 3 sets of footsteps. The part of your brain that still holds a tiny bit of humanity curls in on itself. It knows what’s coming. The slaughter of the 3 that you hold most dear. Then that last little part disappears, and your night is consumed in the pain. Overwhelming. All-consuming. Omniscient.

You wake with the sun. A sense of grief fills you. Fills the hole that had been brutally torn in you for years and years, since the sun had started sleeping and you noticed. The blue runs through your veins, freezing you cold. The ice filters through your body, taking over your blood, your joints, you limbs. You open your eyes. You stare at-

Wait,

Wait,

Wait,

3 familiar faces look hopefully at you. The ice chips, and slowly melts.

The warmth of the sun fills you.

You feel the heat of the awoken sun on your skin.

You smile.

The pain is gone.


	2. stars in his hands

He likes to look up and see the stars shining.

He spends hours drawing, tracing, memorising constellations. His phone camera full of pictures of the sky. The moon. The stars. He spends his free time tracing black constellations on his fingers, palms, winding up and around his wrist. His favourites holding an almost permanent place on his fingers. Aquarius drawn messily on between his left pinkie and ring fingers, cancer drawn down the length of his right index finger. At night, he lies with the lines he knows so well beneath his fingers.

So when the boy named after the stars comes into his life, he falls in love. He feels himself memorising every line of the star’s face as he would his constellations. The burn of the night sky burns beneath his star’s skin, on every expression his face forms, in the star’s graceful movements, in the way he throws back his head when laughing, the way his eyes shine.

The first time his star goes to kiss him, he notices the stars in the eyes he sees, the taste of the sparks on their lips, and he feels the constellations above him as if he could just reach out and touch them.

He cares more for the stars than the heavy moon. It’s cycle bringing him nothing but pain, while the stars are gentle lovers, waiting patiently to turn. He whispers his pain to his star, but the boy is asleep, and heard none of it.

When he has saved enough pocket money, his first tattoo is a constellation. The constellation that has a now permanent place wrapping across his left wrist and onto his palm, marking over old scars left from the moon’s bane.

Now when he looks up, instead of every constellation shining so brightly, one seems to stand out. It’s forever etched onto his body, and into his heart.

Sirius, the stars say.

 Sirius.


End file.
